


Thick as Thieves

by Prochytes



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Sex Pollen, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alec Hardison is the luckiest man on this sinful Earth. He has a job that brings him alien sex-pollen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thick as Thieves

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in 2012. No significant spoilers. Sophie’s segment glances at the work of Jostein Gaarder. Some elements of dub-con (because of the sex-pollen).

  
  
Bodies sprawl all around Eliot Spencer. This is not unprecedented. They sound like they’re having fun. That’s something new.  
  
Eliot does not know why that vial affected him less. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe it’s because he’s collected toxin immunities since he was twenty-one. Hardison’s too busy to explain right now, and three other people wouldn’t thank him for... er.... disengaging.  
  
Then Parker’s pale legs curl up around Eliot’s neck. It’s a MMA move he taught her before the Nebraska job. Eliot sighs, and lets himself be pulled down. She’s playing their song, and it would be unmannerly not to dance.  
  
***  
  
Eliot tastes of engine-oil. Sophie tastes of Fendi and Gucci and other expensive things that end in vowels. Nate tastes of whisky. Hardison tastes of geekjuice, which is what you get when that orange stuff he drinks meet and greets the solder from his gadgets on his skin. Four tastes have twenty-four potential sequences. Parker’s tongue races through the permutations.  
  
When Parker was small, she stole the treble bell from a ring of five. She wanted to hear the silence move when they rang a peal. They never did.  
  
Nate gasps. Sophie sighs. Parker moves, the silence inside the peal.  
  
***  
  
Alec Hardison is the luckiest man on this sinful Earth. He has a job that brings him alien sex-pollen.  
  
OK – the chemical was technically neither alien nor pollen. But if it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, and stimulates group sex beyond the wildest dreams of a _Torchwood_ fanfic... well, Alec Hardison is not complaining.  
  
They need to take out corrupt pharmaceutical companies more often. Parker has been in continuous physical contact with other human beings for more than twenty minutes now, and she hasn’t bitten anyone. Except in a good way.  
  
Age of the Geek, baby.  
  
***  
  
There are two questions in Sophie’s world, and “Where does the world come from?” is one.  
  
Sophie’s world comes from desire. Desire is its efficient cause. (Nate would be surprised that she knows this vocabulary, but Sophie has conned enough Catholics to be a respectable Thomist.) The material causes are nylon and silicon, perfume and muscle. The formal cause ramifies in the mind of a man who balances his conscience like Jesuit Jenga. But the agent, the unmoved mover, is desire. Sophie feels Nate shudder beneath her, and smiles.  
  
“Who are you?” is the other question. We’ll pass on that.  
  
***  
  
Nathan Ford would like to say he hadn’t thought of this. That would not, however, be strictly true. In Nate’s defence, the broken vial punted this job into the backwaters of Plan M.  
  
Hardison doesn’t die in this Plan M. Unless you count _la petite mort_. The rumour that Parker once picked a lock in Moscow with her tongue may not lack foundation.  
  
Nate will feel bad about this tomorrow. But his crew is around him. Sophie is above him. Perhaps there are worse things to be than a formerly honest man, beset by a thirst for whisky and complication.

FINIS

  
  
  



End file.
